War Machine

[Semicircle]

They've all fallen 
and lie in heeps.
Field rising in plumes;
a silence overdue.

Marching through dead,
with flag firmly grasped,
to the top of the hill,
as it billows in the wind.

The metal general
staring down the last:
a blood laden ash tray
gasping for air.

It plunges the flag
straight through her chest--
towering over everything.

Skulking off into the sun
the metal general, riddled with
burns, bullets, scars, and shrapnel
sounds the bugle of war again
and charges into battle.